There’s a list a kilometer long of things that Shriv should be doing: submit Danger Squadron’s latest batch of requisition requests, fix the leak in the coolant line on his X-wing, finally answer that comm message from Iden asking him if he’d ever show her that trick with the inertial dampeners. He’s doing none of those things, of course, while he fiddles with his datapad and chews on the end of his stylus and hopes to all that is holy and good in the galaxy that he looks busy to anyone who might come looking for him.
Of course, the galaxy is neither a good nor holy place, which is why instead of finding himself alone to gather his thoughts, he finds himself with Lando Calrissian hanging off of his office’s door frame with a magnetic, megawatt smile on his mouth. He only lifts his eyes as far as that before forcing them to dart back down to the black-screened datapad before him.
He should have… turned that on. Probably.
He does so now and hopes it’s not so very obvious that that’s what he’s doing.
“That was locked, the door,” Shriv says, not bothering to look up more than he already has. His mouth settles into a scowl and he narrows his eyes and curses whatever rock Lando came from for ever loosing him on the galaxy at large.
“It wasn’t,” Lando answers, smooth as anything. His cape flicks and resettles as he crosses his arms. “It wasn’t even shut.”
Shriv sighs and scrubs at the skin beneath his eyes. He is so very tired and not a little annoyed. “And yet somehow everyone else knows better than to bother me.” If he makes his voice more gruff on purpose, he pretends it’s not because he’s trying to be an asshole. Also on purpose. “When I’m working.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Lando asks, daring to take a step into the room. “Looks to me like you’re having an existential crisis.”
He uses that same decadent tone of voice he’d used back on Sullust—back when he’d—well. When he’d made a suggestion that Shriv really, really doesn’t want to think too hard about. Shriv, I could kiss you.
Yeah, well. Shows what Lando knows about anything. Because Shriv only wants to punch him in return for his shenanigans. That seems like fair recompense for the poodoo he pulled on their last mission. And the mission before that. And the mission before that all the way back to the first mission they completed together.
It feels like years ago now even though Lando hadn’t been with them much longer than Endor.
Shriv, I could kiss you.
The heat of Sullust’s lava-powered factory manages to flare in his cheeks. And his chest. And the rest of him, too. Shifting in his chair, he finally deigns to raise his eyes to Lando’s calm, kind, curious face.
This banthakriffer. Only he could come off so—so sympathetic in the face of this mess of his own making. Why’d he have to open his trap anyway? Put this impossible, pointless thought in Shriv’s head?
What would he even do with a kiss from Lando Calrissian? It sure as all the Sith hells wouldn’t save him the next time Lando pulled some stupid shit in the name of the Republic. And it wouldn’t stop Lando from throwing himself at the mercy of his own luck and charm while hoping for the best with the world falling apart around him. A kiss from Lando wouldn’t save the galaxy and it wouldn’t stop Shriv from having to go out on every suicide run the generals from on high threw his way.
Shriv is perfectly happy being alone, contemplating nothing more interesting than the need for five hundred bolts for Dangers One through Eight. He doesn’t need Lando mucking up his perfectly mundane days with—with kisses. Or thoughts of kisses. Since Shriv’s entirely sure Lando hadn’t meant any of it. It had just been one of those things that humans say sometimes. Their words are always so flighty, so figurative. It’s hard to tell the things they mean from the things they don’t.
That’s not universally true, of course, Shriv’s fairly certain that nothing Princess Leia says is anything but the truth. But Lando’s a troublemaker, has always been a troublemaker, will always be a troublemaker. And Lando’s imaginative, takes wild fancies into his brain and spits them back out for the rest of them to absorb whether they want to or not. He’ll say anything just because he loves to hear himself talk. And Shriv, more and more and despite his better judgment, wants to be party to every stupid thing Lando has to say.
This is going to be a problem eventually.
It might, if Shriv doesn’t get control of it, become one a whole lot sooner than he’d like.
“What’s the matter, Shriv?” Lando drops into the seat across from him and kicks his boots up onto the corner of the dented, ugly desk that’s been Shriv’s since he was first promoted to Danger Leader. It’s the one thing he likes about the job. It reminds him of himself. “You’ve been avoiding me since Sullust.”
“It’s been a single day,” Shriv points out. “There’s not been enough time to avoid you.” Not a bad idea though, Calrissian, he thought. Might have to give it a shot. “Some of us just actually have work to do.”
“Long enough to notice.” Lando’s voice grows prim, a little stretched, but his smile is no less full or brilliant for the pique that now colors his words. This is what they do; they poke and prod one another, though normally it’s Shriv doing the poking and Lando doing the smoothing of ruffled feathers. Shriv’s not really used to being on the receiving end of a prickly attitude. “And my job’s not exactly nonexistent either.”
Shriv snorts and shakes his head. His datapad idles, screen darkening, unnoticed in his hand. If Lando won’t leave him be, best get to the bottom of this and have it done with. It would never stop bothering him if he didn’t. “I feel like the fact you found me supports my version of events.” His eyes finally lift to take in the entirety of Lando’s stupid, handsome—for a human, anyway—face. At least, that’s what he’s been told. Being from Duros, he doesn’t exactly understand the finer points of human beauty and appeal. Their eyes and heads are way, way too small to be attractive and the less said about their mouths, the better, especially the ones that won’t shut up for more than three minutes at a time.
Someone, somewhere was laughing at him at this very moment. Shriv hesitates to call it a god. Most gods aren’t this capricious or cruel. Maybe it’s one of the evil gods some religions have, the ones who are spiteful, that better beings fight and defeat—or occasionally succumb to. Regardless, Shriv’s not feeling too great about this whole situation and he’s pretty sure it’s the universe’s fault.
A more merciful god would have drowned him in lava back on Sullust just to save him from having to put up with any of this nonsense altogether. Yeah, lava death sounds pretty great right about now.
“Your version of events usually implies more negligence on my part,” Lando says.
Shriv lifts his pad and waves it through the air, all the proof he’s ever needed. “It is your fault I have to work at all. How do I explain, ‘We melted a factory’ to Princess Leia without sounding like a bunch of idiots who don’t know any better?”
Lando’s eyebrow climbs his forehead. “I’m sorry to break this to you, pal, but we are a bunch of idiots who don’t know better. Look around you. Have you seen who they’ve put in charge? Han Solo’s a general. There’s no coming back from that.”
“You’re a general,” Shriv answers.
Lando’s grin grows to even more epic proportions, almost Duran in width it’s so bright and big. “Now you’re making my point for me.”
“What is your point again?” Shriv’s hand wiggles around the side of his head. “Sometimes I forget between all the words you use that I don’t bother listening to.”
Lando nods, playing along with Shriv’s gripes like always. He’s a good sport, Lando is. Never takes Shriv at face value. This is both a blessing and a curse. It’s what’s allowed Lando to become the closest thing to a friend he has in this whole damned nonsensical war. Of course, then Lando goes and says things that give Shriv other ideas and he’s back to being pissed as hell that his friend can bring himself to be so open and—and provocative.
Provocative, that’s the word for him. Substanceless, too. Utterly devoid of the ability to take any of the important things seriously.
Like whether Shriv might like to kiss him in return, like Shriv might want to know there’s a possibility of kissing at all.
Shriv, I could kiss you, he’d said, without once thinking about whether he would or whether Shriv wants to think about it or not.
Shriv’s not stupid. He knows he’s just a cranky fighter pilot that everyone puts up with for reasons that confound his understanding. He’s good, one of the best, but even he knows he has bad days that have made the younger recruits cry. Or worse. Complain to Luke Skywalker about him.
At least, he supposes, they don’t go to Lando. Luke at least just tells him to maybe ease up a bit. It’s Lando who’d try to make him feel better—which is a horrifying prospect all things considered, especially now, when Shriv can think of one particular way he’d like to be made to feel better that is specific to and rather intimately linked with Lando.
Why couldn’t he have just congratulated Shriv on his staggering intellect and bravery and offered to buy the drinks back on base like he usually did? Shriv could so very easily have overlooked that and not gotten the idea that kissing Lando might be fun.
Fun. Fun. Shriv and fun don’t exactly go well together. Shriv, in fact, stays as far away from fun as possible in order to better maintain the curmudgeonly exterior that gets him through the day. Fun is for the sort of people who are better able to protect their hearts, for people like Lando, who take every punch and keep on coming back for more, a quip for every occasion at the ready.
“None of us know what we’re doing,” Lando reiterates. “Sometimes you just have to accept that.” He opens his hands wide. “We succeeded, didn’t we?”
“I don’t think Versio sees it that way.”
Lando’s eyes crinkle pleasantly at the corners, a sure, human sign of amusement. “As long as you and I come out of it in one piece, I’ll see it how I want to see it. We survived and the Empire’s worse off today than they were yesterday. That’s what matters.”
Shriv could grumble, but Lando’s right—and he’s driven them far enough off course that Shriv no longer feels quite so determined to destroy their friendship out of a desperate need for validation that he’s right and Lando’s just a guy who opens his mouth sometimes so that meaningless words fall out. If Shriv could just concede defeat, Lando might leave. And Shriv wouldn’t even have to look foolish to do so. He could just smile and say, “Yeah, Lando. You’re right,” and be done with it.
It would be. So easy.
But nothing Shriv does is easy. He’s here, isn’t he? Easy would be sitting back and letting the Imperial Remnants tear itself apart against the ever growing support for the Rebellion. They don’t need Shriv specifically to point an X-wing at a TIE fighter and shoot it down. So instead of agreeing, Shriv hums and pushes his fingers over the dome of his head. “Maybe,” he replies, because to commit to anything would give Lando an in. And Lando could do a lot with one of those. “Or maybe none of it matters and we’re all just rushing headlong into death and destruction while the Empire rebuilds from its own ashes. You ever thought of that?”
Lando laughs, lowering his feet to the ground before leaning forward on his elbows and steepling his fingers together. “Every Force-damned day of my life, friend.” Wrapping his hands around the chair’s arms, he pushes himself to his feet. His shadow falls across Shriv’s desk as he then decides it’s time to lean against Shriv’s desk instead. Drawing closer than Shriv’s entirely comfortable with, he peers at Shriv. “Good thing it’s worth the risk just to see those pretty red eyes of yours, Shriv. Don’t think I don’t know that particular shade is coveted by Durans the galaxy over. I happen to find it fetching myself.”
Shriv, who hasn’t ever blushed in his life, not once, not ever, not even earlier in this very conversation despite admissions he’d already made to himself, manages to do so now with merely a word or two of flattery from Lando. To his unending relief, it doesn’t show on his face, but the fact that it happens at all is enough to send bolts of electricity through him. And not the fun kind—is there a fun kind?—no, the kind that signal danger, high voltage, proceed with caution. The kind that hurt.
This has trouble written all over it.
And all Shriv can do is swallow, bite back the words that would take them forward or back depending on which ones he might have picked.
“What do you say, Shriv?” Lando asks. “You’ve been known to vacillate.”
Vacillate. Funny. That is indeed all he’s been doing here today and now Lando’s calling him on it. Of course he’s calling him on it. Confront Lando. Don’t confront Lando. It doesn’t seem to matter, does it? Lando does what he wants, says what he wants. How long had he been toying with Shriv? Just since he walked through the door? Since Sullust? Or even before that?
There’s no telling.
And Shriv is too tired to try figuring it out.
So, he does the next best thing and plunges right into Lando’s ridiculous idea, accepting that the only way out is giving in. Grabbing Lando by his shirt, he yanks him forward, across the desk. Shriv can give him this much credit: he’s quick on the uptake, managing to catch himself on his palms before Shriv has to steady him, and he doesn’t even hesitate when Shriv takes him up on that impulsive, implicit offer from yesterday. Shriv, I could kiss you.
No, he doesn’t hesitate at all. One of his hands comes up to rest on Shriv’s neck, right above a pulse point, cool against Shriv’s skin. And he’s either kissed a Duran before or he’s thought a lot about the logistics, because he takes to it like he’s made for it. If Shriv’s not careful, he’ll be wondering just what else Lando knows how to do and in the middle of shift that wouldn’t be a good thing. Not at all.
It’s the only reason he releases his hold on Lando and smooths the line of his now wrinkled shirt and coughs delicately into his shoulder. This is… so very unprofessional.
And he couldn’t be happier anyway.
“Lando,” he says, pleased to be the one to leave Lando struck silent for once, a well of delight bubbling up inside of him from places he didn’t even know still existed in him, for once confounding Lando instead of the other way around, “I could kiss you.”